


Keep the Home Fires Burning

by lazyisatalent



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: M/M, Multi, WWI AU, american les mis, bossuet is probably the least lucky person on the planet, courfeyrac has pointy hair, newsie!gavroche, pining grantaire is pining, sometimes enjolras tries to be nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyisatalent/pseuds/lazyisatalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WWI AU. Les Amis are a hodge-podge group of activists in New York city, progressive party members who are outspoken and pro-peace at a time when it's pretty unfortunate to be outspoken and pro-peace. <b>This fic is discontinued for the time being.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**November, 1916**

The city of New York was always bustling, and the tiny cafe on a winding street in the oldest part of the city was no exception. 

But there was a difference between the bustling of the city on an average day and the bustling of the city as it waited for election results. 

When Les Amis had departed at the end of the previous night, many people were calling the election in Hughes’ favor. 

Combeferre had reminded them all that California’s results had not yet been tallied.

Enjolras had all the energy of a cat trapped in a small box, and even Grantaire was clever enough to steer clear after he entered the cafe. The bell above the door jangled and the pale, slightly scrawny boy behind the counter nodded at him.

He ordered a coffee and sat in the corner and pulled out a sketchbook. With careful lines and half of a charcoal pencil he pulled from his pocket, Grantaire began to draw Enjolras’ profile.

His drawings were more realist than anything else he did. Grantaire captured the Aquiline nose, the somber eyes and the tense frown - he was trying to draw the swirl of Enjolras’ curls when the boy handed him his coffee.

Grantaire took a sip. A drop of the liquid fell on his piece of paper and he ignored it, continued to sketch. The charcoal stained his hands and he was so absorbed that he almost did not notice Courefeyrac - who was wearing wrinkled clothes, and whose black hair stuck up in all directions - burst in.

“The telegram is in!” Courfeyrac said gleefully, “California went Wilson - we’re out of the war!”

Grantaire grinned. Enjolras’ face twitched into a smile for a second.

“I voted for the socialist party,” he said.

“You had to have known they wouldn’t win,” Grantaire called out, drawing bags under the eyes of his sketch.

Courfeyrac was still gleeful. “Hughes is a _conservative_ ,” he said, “Big business has practically proposed marriage to him. Enjolras, I know you’re happy about this, you can smile if you want to.”

Enjolras let a proper smile slip out.

“We dodged a torpedo!” the boy said suddenly. He sounded like he came from New York's tenements, and if Grantaire had to guess which country his parents came from he would say it was Italy.

All three of them looked at the boy. Enjolras smiled again. Grantaire raised his eyebrows and started darkening the background behind his sketch. Courfeyrac beamed.

“Quite right,” Courf said,”A torpedo, quite right.”

“What’s your name?” Enjolras asked.

“Feuilly,” the boy said, “I know you - you’re - Enjolras, and that’s Courfeyrac, and the one in the corner is - Grantaire?”

Grantaire saluted.

“You should have talked to us sooner,” Courfeyrac said, “You already have interesting things to say, and we’ve only just met! That hardly ever happens. Do you know -”

And Courfeyrac launched into the speech, and Enjolras interjected with questions every few moments. Grantaire had the sudden sense that he was witnessing a proper recruitment. He himself had joined the ABC through a combination of loitering in the cafe all the time and making friends with everyone but Enjolras, but no one had ever _asked_ him to show up every damn time.

He was going to paint this later, he could tell already. Properly surrealist - Enjolras and Courfeyrac massive, glowing, and the boy - _Feuilly_ \- reaching up to take Courfeyrac’s hand. The title would be something about progressivism, probably more heavy-handed than his usual nonsense -

The cafe door opened again and Combeferre trotted in. His suit was askew, his glasses were in hand, and he clutched a copy of the paper - he toppled into one of the seats at one of the tiny tables before he spoke.

“You’ve heard?” he chirped. Combeferre gave Grantaire a little nod, and Grantaire saluted again - his gesture of the day, so it seemed - and Enjolras nodded.

“We did!” Courfeyrac practically sang, “And we’ve met someone new - this is Feuilly! He works here! He’s _excellent_ , you have to hear his thoughts on -”

and on and on and on.

Grantaire had moved on to drawing a tree, stretching far with wide branches that were weak and strong and drooping and perky and everything in between, when Courf and Combeferre left to accompany Feuilly to lunch. And so he was left alone with Enjolras - apart from the scruffy teenager who was now manning the desk - and after a few moments of no one talking to anyone else, Enjolras sat down across from Grantaire.

“Who did you vote for, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, settling back in his chair with all the grace of a Greek god.

“I didn’t vote,” Grantaire replied, lazily sketching a falling leaf into blank space underneath his tree.

“Huh,” Enjolras said. 

“But if I had,” Grantaire continued, having decided to make an attempt, “It’d have been for Wilson. Or Roosevelt - did he run again?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No,” he said, “The Progressive party didn’t put up a candidate.”

Grantaire made a ‘hmn’ sound in the back of his throat and sat up, leaving his piece of charcoal lying on the paper. “The Bull-Moose party, you mean,” he said, the corners of his lips twitching up.

“Officially, it’s the former,” Enjolras said with a slight pout.

“I think you’d make a good moose.”

“I - what?”

“You’re stubborn and you would always be head-butting things if that was something people in polite society did,” Grantaire said, “Someone tries to restrict the rights of the working class - bam! Headbutt! J.P. Morgan does his thing - headbutt! A conservative runs for office - _headbutt!_ ”

Enjolras stared at him.

Grantaire cleared his throat and started drawing leaves again.

“Anyways,” Enjolras said, “You should consider voting. It’s important.”

“Some of us have more important things to do than to cast a vote that doesn’t, in the scheme of things, matter,” Grantaire said, “Besides, I always knew that Wilson was going to win.”

“Why?”

“I can tell the future, obviously,” Grantaire said, wriggling his charcoal-coated fingers at Enjolras.

Enjolras snorted. “Well,” he said, “You should consider it.”

Grantaire shrugged rather impassively. Enjolras glanced at his watch.

“Listen,” Enjolras said, “My parents are expecting me, so - I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose?”

“Mmn,” Grantaire said, “Good luck.”

Enjolras nodded and walked out. The door of the cafe closed behind him with a bang and the scruffy teenager - child, really - snorted.

“Could you be any more obvious?” the child asked cheekily.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m young and poor, not stupid,” he replied. After a beat: “Also, the temperance movement people are outside of that pub again.”

Grantaire sighed.

**March 1, 1917**

The months passed, as months do, and when February ended Grantaire was still a member of the ABC. Still living in New York city - so far from his native Boston, and always busy - and still trying to avoid the temperance movement people who inevitably loitered outside of saloons. Still pining over Enjolras.

He knew the scruffy blond teenager’s name, now - he was Gavroche, and he sold newspapers when he was not working in the Musain - and Feuilly was officially an activist.

Grantaire was painting a bear at the table in the center of the room. Across from him, Joly - a slight man with dark eyes and mousy hair - was reviewing a book on amputations, and Courfeyrac was fiddling with a pocketwatch.

Enjolras shoved the door open and stormed in. He looked more nervous than Grantaire had ever seen him - that was, not very, but his hands were shaking - and he threw a newspaper down on the table. It missed Grantaire’s painting - good - but landed on Joly’s book and Courfeyrac had to pull his watch out of the way.

Joly gave Enjolras a _look_.

“Look,” Enjolras said, prodding the paper with his thumb, “At this.”

Grantaire, and Joly, and Courfeyrac looked at the front page of the newspaper.

  
**THE NEW YORK TIMES**  
GERMANY SEEKS ALLIANCE AGAINST US: ASKS JAPAN AND MEXICO TO JOIN HER;  
FULL TEXT OF HER PROPOSAL MADE PUBLIC

“Oh, my God,” Joly said in a trembling voice, face pale, “My God. Oh, no.”

“Well, shit,” Grantaire said.

“Is it - is it real?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Yes,” Enjolras said. He sunk into a chair and his hands were still shaking. “It’s utterly real. The British - they intercepted it, and they gave the telegram to Wilson and the press.”

“Good lord,” Joly said, burying his face in his hands. Grantaire reached out to pat him on the back, once, as though that would help anything.

“Wilson is - we’re going to - oh, no,” Joly said, “This is - shit.” He looked up. “This is everything we never wanted.”

“It’s everything we've feared,” Courfeyrac affirmed, “But nothing is certain yet, he hasn’t even asked congress to -”

“We’re going to war,” Enjolras said, “Make no mistake. This takes away all other options.”

“Christ,” Grantaire said, “Are we sure it isn’t faked, maybe the Brits just wanted -”

“It’s real,” Enjolras said, “It’s real, and we’re going to join the war.”

“Wilson is a progressive, Joly,” Courfeyrac said, “And he’s pro-peace. It won’t be - it won’t be _terrible._ ”

Grantaire thought that he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than anything.

Enjolras scooped up his paper again and clung to it like it was a lifeline. “Courf is right,” he said, “We’re not - we’re not going to get mired for years like those European countries. If anything, it’ll be -”

“What?” Grantaire said, “If anything, it won’t be a _war_? You’ve seen the casualty numbers from those battles. They’re fighting in _trenches,_ and they’re _dying_ in such extreme numbers that your ancestors would _faint_. Thousands and thousands of people are going to die and we’re just going to end up locked in a stalemate like the _rest of them_ , and to say anything else is to be deliberately ridiculous. People are going to die and it is going to be horrible.”

Enjolras glared at him. Courf’s eyebrows were raised, and Joly was just staring, mid-panic.

It was the latter expression that made R feel guilty.

“You’ll be fine, though,” he said, “If anything, you’ll end up a medic, and while you’d see tragedies you wouldn’t be _in_ them.”

Joly nodded. Grantaire patted him on the back once more.

“You don’t know anything,” Enjolras said in his harshest tone, “You don’t read the paper - my God, you don’t even _vote_ , what do you know -”

“I listen to you,” Grantaire spat, “And I know atrocities. And I’ve seen headlines - I’m not an idiot, and if none of you are going to be realists about it then someone might as well be honest, Christ, war is always horrible and it will always _be_ horrible and the entire country is going to change.”

“Nothing is settled,” Courf said quietly, “Wilson hasn’t even asked Congress to declare war yet.”

Enjolras nodded, once, and Grantaire went back to painting with his heart thrumming in his chest, faster than it had any right to.

He did not care about politics, and he only cared about progressivism when it kept the garbage off of his streets. But war -

war was something else entirely.

Especially one like this.

“Someone should tell the others,” Joly said quietly, “They’re going to want to know well - they’re going to have wanted to know _now_.”

“The newsies are shouting about it,” Enjolras said, “They’d have to live under a rock to miss it.”

“I need a fucking drink,” Grantaire said.

“I’ll go with you,” Courf replied, standing up. Joly followed in silence and, seeing everyone leaving, Enjolras went with them.

Grantaire could not help but notice that their leader's hands were still shaking, and that they did not stop even when the four of them were drinking the strongest Western whiskey the sleazy pub had to offer.

**April 2nd-6th, 1917**

The world was holding its breath. 

America wanted peace. Wilson wanted peace. His campaign’s catchphrase had been ‘He Kept Us Out of the War,’ but now, with the telegram released - there was very little to be done. 

Public opinion towards Germany was venomous.

On April second, President Woodrow Wilson asked congress for a declaration of war on Germany.

Enjolras had sat in the corner of the Musain, more quiet than anyone had ever seen him. Occasionally he interjected with cutting comments, harsher than usual.

Bossuet, whose parents were German immigrants, had to have a cut to his face stitched up by Joly. Everyone and no one had watched.this.

Musichetta, the half-Montauk woman who was one of the best people Grantaire had ever met, bought them all pastries, and Gavroche promised to keep them up to date on any and all developments.

On April third, neither the senate nor the house had yet spoken.

Grantaire’s paintings were splattered with flashes of light and red and dark, and he could not focus on any of them.

Jehan’s poetry was scattered, full of enjambment and incoherent similes.

Marius fought with his parents and everyone was terribly proud of him.

On April fourth, the senate voted in favor of war on Germany.

Gavroche made more money selling papers than he ever had. Everyone else was miserable.

On April fifth, Grantaire finished putting them all in the largest painting he had ever done.

And on the sixth, the house agreed with the senate, and the country was officially in a state of war.


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He threw a brick through the window of the Army registration office,” Musichetta said in a soft voice.
> 
> A new piece of legislation passes, and things go from bad to worse.

**May 1917**

Two ladies walked into the cafe.

One of them was tall and dressed in light blues, with gray eyes and a crooked smile and blonde hair that was pulled up into a bun. The other was shorter, more angular, with dark hair and warm eyes and a faintly dingy dress.

The door swung shut and Gavroche launched himself from behind the bar, running across the room so that he could envelop Eponine in a hug.

Cosette beamed around the room, even though it was mostly empty, before she finally hurried forwards to sit across from Grantaire at the middle table.

“Are you the only one here?” she asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s easy to spend your whole day here when you don’t have a real job and you aren’t trying to vandalize pro-war posters,” he said lazily. Grantaire stood up to greet them more properly.

Gavroche was whispering into Eponine’s ear.

“Is Enjolras really committing vandalism?” Cosette asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “But it’s _bad_ , Cos, you have no idea.”

“How bad?”

“I think that Musichetta is angry enough to head to Washington and shout right at President Wilson,” Grantaire said, “Courfeyrac was almost arrested for talking in front of the recruitment office the other day. Enjolras is on - well, he’s on a goddamn _warpath_.” Grantaire pulled out a chair for her.

Cosette sat down. “Thank you - about the war, or the press?” 

“The press, mostly,” Grantaire said, “He’s not very fond of the war, either, but it’s the propaganda that’s getting to him.”

Cosette nodded solemnly. 

“Marius is okay,” Grantaire added. Both of them started, and Gavroche punched Eponine lightly in the ribcage. “I mean, he’s obviously not _thrilled_ , but he’s mostly all right, when he isn’t getting into screaming matches with his parents.”

“Ah,” Cosette said. Eponine made her way over to the table and sat down next to Cosette after giving Grantaire a nod.

“So, ladies,” Grantaire said, “How are things up at Sarah Lawrence?”

“The usual,” Cosette said, “Apart from the war, of course.”

“Ah.”

“Grantaire,” Eponine said, casually leaning over the table to poke a fingernail into the paper in front of him, “Are you painting Enjolras again?”

Grantaire looked down at his sketchbook. Colored pencils did the linework for what was obviously Enjolras’ face, glaring up out of the paper at him, and Grantaire shrugged.

“Sketching him, actually,” Grantaire replied.

Cosette looked dreadfully sad for him. Eponine covered her mouth with one hand, and Grantaire could not tell if she was hiding a tiny smile or a tiny frown.

“How is Bossuet holding up?” Cosette asked suddenly.

Grantaire had known that she would drop it. His attraction to Enjolras was not the sort of thing people talked about - not in public, at least, and while he knew that Eponine and Cosette and Gavroche (and probably half the other people in their group of friends, when he thought about it) knew about it, it was almost never discussed.

“Bossuet’s - hm,” Grantaire said, “He’s not doing spectacularly, at least, but Joly is keeping an eye on him and he hasn’t been attacked since the news came out.”

“That’s - good,” Eponine said, “Not good, but good.”

“Mmn.”

\--

Bahorel stood next to his cousin’s elbow and let out a huff of breath. He glared up at the police station.

“I think we should just break him out,” he said.

Musichetta sighed. “You know why we can’t do that.”

“His parents don’t like us.”

“His parents don’t like _our people_ ,” Musichetta said, “I don’t think they have any opinion on us in particular.”

Neither of them moved. Bahorel pushed a strand of hair away from his face and scratched at his chin.

“We could just get Marius,” he said finally.

“Marius hasn’t become a real lawyer.”

“He can fake it,” Bahorel said, “And he’s less frustrating to listen to than Enj’s parents.”

Musichetta paused, made a quiet ‘hmmn’ noise in the back of her throat, and finally said: “Fine, we’ll get Marius then.”

Musichetta turned around then and took off down the street. Bahorel followed her, matching her pace with his hands in his pockets, because she knew these streets better than he did and she was certainly better at finding people on purpose.

“So,” Bahorel said, as he skirted past a skinny woman carrying a basket filled with yarn, “What did he do?”

“He threw a brick through the window of the Army registration office,” Musichetta said in a soft voice.

Bahorel took a moment to stare at her. “Really?”

“Really.”

“He’s usually less -,” Bahorel struggled for words, “Less -”

“I know,” Chetta said, “But he had a good reason.”

“Do you know it?”

“I thought you’d have heard?”

“I got up late today.”

Musichetta nodded. “Well, I’m not telling you,” she said, “You’d be just as angry, and Marius can’t fake two people out of prison in one day.”

Bahorel remained silent for the rest of the trip to Marius’ boarding house, and Musichetta explained the situation to the freckled redhead with minimal interjection from Bahorel.

He did not think that he had ever heard Marius say ‘what,’ ‘oh my god,’ and ‘seriously’ so many times in a fifteen minute time period as he did on their walk back to the jailhouse.

Bahorel and Musichetta waited outside, leaning against the side of a building across the street, because neither of them trusted the government any further than they could throw it.

\--

There was something to be said, Marius thought, about having a good name. He had scarcely managed to introduce himself with _Marius Pontmercy, I’m here to meet my client_ before he was whisked inside and given directions to Enjolras’ holding cell by a wiry, balding police officer.

Enjolras had the remarkable gift of always looking like he meant to be somewhere. The curly blond hair that framed his face was a little bit disheveled, but he had his legs crossed and was leaning back on his elbows on the bench of his holding cell.

The officer supervising him was laughing, and so was Enjolras - genuine, light laughter, and while the officer attempted to look stern when Marius arrived Enjolras was still grinning.

Marius flashed a smile at them both. 

“Chetta went and got you?” Enjolras asked.

Marius nodded. “She did,” he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir -” he gave a nod to the officer “-and I really would like to apologize for the conduct of my client.”

The officer smiled. “T’be honest,” he said, “I wasn’t thrilled either when I heard the news.”

Enjolras frowned, just slightly. “I lost my temper,” he said, “I should have known better.”

Marius nodded and gave him the compulsory stern look.

“You should have,” he said, “You’re lucky that Chetta and Bahorel didn’t try to get your parents.”

Enjolras grimaced. 

“Is he free to go?” Marius asked, “I’m willing to sign for him, if you need that, but I doubt that he’ll violate any more laws anytime soon -”

The lie was effortless, and Marius very much hoped that Enjolras wouldn’t get arrested again anytime soon.

“You should be okay,” the officer said cheerfully. Marius could not tell if it was because Enjolras was likable or because of Enjolras’ family or both, but he wasn’t willing to question it, and he kept a sharp eye on Enjolras on the walk out.

It was not until they were nearly out of the building that Marius finally thought to ask: “So, why were you so angry? I haven’t heard any of the news, I was studying all morning.”

Enjolras, who had previously kept the casual half-smile on his face, deflated visibly. His shoulders sagged and he frowned and his jaw tightened, as though even remembering it was enough to recall the poisonous anger that had ensured that he spent his morning detained.

“The Selective Service Act. It passed. There are going to be conscriptions.”

Marius stared, then sighed, then gulped.

**June 5th, 1917**

They were all to register for the first round of the draft, of twenty-one to thirty-one year olds. Enjolras went with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and complained about his civil liberties the entire time. 

Musichetta escorted Bossuet and Joly and waited outside, arms crossed, a bitter statue who met the eyes of anyone who stared. Her anger was eclipsed only by Enjolras’, and Bahorel had muttered more than once that she would have been downright murderous if Montauk people were being drafted.

Grantaire, Marius, and Joly ran into Eponine and Cosette on their way there, and the pair registered while Eponine looked at advertisements pasted to the windows of the recruitment office and Cosette pretended that she was not blushing every time Marius looked at her.

Feuilly and Jehan registered late in the evening, and afterwards they were all in the Musain, somber and working on anti-war pamphlets.

**August, 1917**

For once only a few of the teetotalers were lurking outside his favorite saloon with their wagon, and Grantaire walked past them without even sparing them a glance and sat at the bar. He ordered a whiskey without even really looking at the bartender and rested his head against his forearm until he heard the clink of the glass against the bar.

He looked up, bleary-eyed, and picked up the glass.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” a soft voice said. 

Grantaire turned and very nearly slid off of his barstool. “Enjolras,” he said, “I - hello.”

“Hello, Grantaire.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here on your own.”

“Well I’m not on my own, am I?”

Grantaire shrugged and took a sip of his whiskey. “No,” he said, “Though I don’t know why’d you figure that I’d be here.”

“You dislike anything generally uncomfortable,” Enjolras said, “The first few draft calls arrived today and - you don’t want to hear which of our friends is heading to the war front.”

“Ah,” Grantaire said, “That’d do it, yes.”

Enjolras made a sort of ‘hmm’ sound in the back of his throat before getting off of his bar stool and standing up. “Well,” he said, “I just came to tell you that you ought to come to the meeting tonight. Some of our friends - well, their lives are going to be in very deep danger, and they do genuinely adore you.”

Enjolras went to walk out. 

“Wait,” Grantaire called after him, “You weren’t-?”

Enjolras looked over his shoulder and said, “No. I wasn’t.”

\--

Grantaire was half-drunk when he arrived, late, to the meeting. He glanced longingly at his chair in the corner before taking stock of the scene in front of him.

Joly was wiping at red eyes and had one hand clasped on Bossuet’s shoulder as Bossuet sobbed, the sort of chest-aching gut-wrenching sob that made Grantaire’s throat close up before he was even given real context. 

Musichetta, with an infuriated blush on her cheeks, wiped at both of their cheeks with a handkerchief and Enjolras merely stared at them from the center of the room, horror struck.

Feuilly had his arms wrapped around himself. He was sitting on the cafe counter and Gavroche was slumped behind it, arms wrapped around his knees, and neither of them were saying anything.

Combeferre looked utterly defeated as he talked in hushed voices to an impassioned Eponine, who was clutching a piece of paper in her hand, and Cosette had one arm wrapped against Marius as they slumped together in a booth.

Jehan and Courfeyrac were by the door, and Grantaire caught a snatch of their conversation -

“[i]This is only the first one and[/i] -”

Grantaire wanted to vomit, or run, or drink - drink until he could not even remember these people, let alone why he did not want them to die - but he couldn’t do any of that.

They were his friends, and he loved them, and so instead he approached Jehan and Combeferre.

“Who is it?” he murmured to them, pushing a nervous hand through his hair.

“Bossuet,” Courf said, “And - well, no one else yet, but there’s going to be more arriving tomorrow and - “

Jehan clapped Courf on the back. “We’ll be - we’ll be something,” he said, “We could always dodge the draft if we really needed to.”

“Do you really want to move to Canada?”

Jehan frowned. “No,” he said, “Not particularly.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, “That I wasn’t here earlier.”

“I know,” Courf replied.

They were mostly silent for a while, everyone recovering, and Eponine went from talking to Combeferre to walking off with a swish of her skirts. She stood next to Enjolras, pamphlet still in hand, and watched Grantaire curiously.

“Taire,” she said finally, “You’ve always been terrible at keeping a secret.”

And everyone looked at him, and Grantaire clutched the draft card in his pocket in one hand.

“I was trying to think of the best way to break the news.”

Enjolras was the first person to break the silence: “Oh, God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheee, chapter two! I took some liberties with the details of the selective service act because I was having a very hard time getting solid details.
> 
> While there were Native American soldiers in WWI, most of them were from Texas, and they were volunteers. Bahorel wouldn't be made to sign up for the draft because at this point in time Native Americans were still counted as members of a sovereign nation rather than US citizens.


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They only have a few days left.

**August, 1917**

Of the three of them, Joly was the only one who lived in a nice place.

A boardinghouse in the old, Dutch, part of the city, with large windows and flowers in the front. It was for rich students, mostly, and women weren’t technically allowed in - but the boys had their ways, and the landlords never batted an eye when they saw one coming in or leaving.

So really, it was easy for Musichetta and Joly to get Bossuet up the stairs and into the building. He had stopped crying twenty minutes before they had even left the Musain, but his eyes were red and Joly’s hands were shaking and Musichetta placed her hands over the smalls of each of their backs to guide them up the stairs.

Her throat felt clammy, because they were going to lose Bossuet and there could be little worse than that, but if anyone was going to hold it together it would be her. She got them to Joly’s room and closed the door with her hip.

They were sitting down on the bed, looking shell-shocked, and Musichetta sat between them.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said, and the words sounded hollow, and she knew that they both knew it.

“Musichetta -” Joly said, voice cracking.

“We’ll get through this,” Bossuet said, reaching across Chetta’s lap to squeeze Joly’s hand, “I mean - we’re us, right?”

Musichetta and Joly stared at him.

“We’re the only people I know who’ve ever successfully been in love with two people at once,” Bossuet said, smiling at them, “And - you know what? You two have always been my luck. I’ll get through it.”

The corners of Joly’s lips twitched into a smile. “If you say so,” he said, and Musichetta reached out to squeeze both of their hands.

“Bossuet’s right,” she said, “Everything will - it’ll work out fine.”

She was still worried - desperately, painfully, worried - but there was so little to be done.

\--

“I’ll walk you home,” Marius said when the meeting ended, having noticed that Eponine was nowhere to be found.

Cosette glanced over her shoulder, peered under tables for the sight of her best friend - after a few moments of this, she turned back to Marius and said: “Okay, I suppose.”

The sun had set completely but the streets of New York were never empty. Cosette matches Marius’ stride easily, and they walked in silence that borderlined on awkward. Marius kept one hand hovering next to her elbow, but never actually touched her, and Cosette kept glancing behind her as though Eponine would reappear.

“Marius,” Cosette said finally, “We’ve been spending a lot of time together, since Ep and I came home.”

Marius nodded faintly. “Yes,” he said, “We have.”

“I - well I was wondering,” she said, blushing just slightly, “If that was - just because we are friends, or also because of… Well. I was wondering.”

Marius blushed in turn. “Well - yes,” he said, “It’s because - I like you. And you’re my friend. But I also like you as - more than a friend.”

Cosette nodded fervently. “That’s what I - what Ep - thought.”

“Do you - like me as more than a friend?”

Cosette shrugged. “Yes,” she said, smiling brightly, “I think you’re the only person who hasn’t figured it out yet.”

Marius laughed, rather sheepishly.

“Have you met my father before?” she asked, grabbing his elbow to turn him onto the cobblestone street that the Valjeans lived on.

“No,” Marius said, shaking his head rather emphatically, “No, I haven’t. And I don’t really -”

“Want to, yet?” Cosette finished for him, giving his elbow a squeeze.

“That’s it exactly,” Marius said, sheepish again.   
Cosette stopped walking. “Well,” she said, “We should probably say goodbye here, then.”

“Oh -” Marius said, “Oh, right, that’d be a -”

Cosette stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. 

“Stop overthinking things,” she said, flouncing down the street and blushing furiously, “I’ll see you tomorrow.

\--

Eponine stood on the porch. She shifted her weight from foot to foot every few moments and tapped her fingers against her arm in an offbeat rhythm until finally - after she had knocked on the door roughly five times - Cosette Valjean opened the door.

“Ep!” she said, flinging her arms around her smaller friend. Eponine burrowed her head into the shoulder of Cosette’s dress for a moment.

Cosette pulled on Eponine’s sleeves and closed the door behind her. 

“Where did you go last night?” she asked, quite urgently, still half-dragging Eponine until finally they reached the Valjean’s sensibly decorated sitting room.

“Places,” Eponine said, and Cosette bit her lip for a moment before she seemed to accept this as a vague statement which could not be helped. Eponine had been much flightier before she had started going to Sarah Lawrence - and while she and Cosette had not quite been friends, then, Cosette still knew about it.

“You look tired.”

“Mmn.”

“What’s going on?”

Eponine shrugged. “I feel bad,” she said, “For the boys who are going over there. I know that Enj hates the propaganda, and I know that we all hate the way this is being handled - but I feel bad. For the soldiers. Especially the drafted ones, and the ones who don’t have any better options.”

“I do too,” Cosette said, reaching out to squeeze Eponine’s hand, “I do too, you’re not alone, Ep -”

“I know,” Eponine said, “I know. But your father needs you - and Marius is going to need you, and so will everyone else. And - well, they haven’t just been giving pamphlets to the boys.”

“What do you mean?”

“The, um -” Eponine gave a frustrated sigh before, finally, pulling a crumpled pamphlet out of her bag. 

She handed it to Cosette, who stared at the pamphlet. Her mouth fell open, and she looked up to stare at Eponine, before looking back down at the pamphlet.

“You want to join the American Red Cross?” Cosette asked, her nose wrinkling in confusion, rather than disdain.

“I joined,” Eponine said, “Yesterday. Combeferre saw me.”

“But -” Cosette was still clutching the pamphlet. “But what about school?” she said finally.

“I can’t - Cos,” Eponine said, and her throat felt clogged, “I’m never going to be able to be a doctor.”

“But you can try,” Cosette said, voice cracking, “You can try. You’d be the - the best doctor there could ever be!”

“It’s a gentlemen’s club. And I’m not rich enough to do it anyways. So I’m going - I’m going with the soldiers. To help.”

Cosette looked up at Eponine helplessly. “And this - is it going to make you happy?”

There were tears in the corners of Cosette’s eyes and Eponine realized, rather belatedly, that she was crying, too. Eponine wiped off her cheeks with the sleeve of her dress.

“I think so.”

Cosette let out a tiny laugh that was followed by a nervous sob, and she leaned across the couch to hug Eponine tightly.

Eponine hugged her back.

“I’m going to miss you,” Cos said, “I’m going to miss you so much.”

“I know.”

\---

A few days later, Courfeyrac managed to finagle his way in and out of Enjolras’ parents’ house.

Enjolras’ parents were not very fond of his friends, or his hobbies, or especially his opinions. But Courfeyrac could be remarkably convincing, when he wanted to be, which was how he had managed to get himself invited inside and also managed to wrench Enjolras from his mother’s grasp within fifteen minutes of arrival.

“Sometimes I think that you’re a witch,” Enjolras said, straightening his tie as they reached the street corner, “What do you want?”

Courfeyrac frowned at him. “Why do I always have to want something?” he asked.

“Because you’re Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, “You always have a scheme or two up your sleeve.”

“I think you know me too well,” Courfeyrac said, scowling at him, “We’re going to not-the-Musain.”

He grabbed onto Enjolras’ shirtsleeve and tugged it as the pair took off, crossing the street in the brief respite between processions of cars and carriages.

“Why aren’t we going to the Musain?” Enjolras asked, in the sort of voice that made it clear that he was only begrudgingly tolerating this madness.

“Because Grantaire’s in there,” Courf said, in the sort of voice that made it clear that Enjolras was an idiot.

“And why are we avoiding Grantaire?”

“Because we’re going to talk about Grantaire.”

“Oh.”  
They wandered the streets of the oldest part of New York for nearly fifteen minutes, Enjolras giving Courfeyrac sharp ‘you don’t know of any cafes that aren’t the Musain’ looks until finally Courf dragged him by the shirtsleeve into one of the Carnegie libraries.

“We can’t get breakfast here,” Enj said dryly.

“Shush,” Courf said, “I’m not expecting this to take very long.”

“Fine,” Enjolras said. They sat down, crosslegged, at the very end of one of the library’s aisles.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “I’m going to need you to be quiet,” he said, “Until I’m done. And I know that that’s very hard for you, but you’re going to need to be quiet anyways.”

Enjolras glanced at him and sighed, deeply. “All right.”

“I know that this isn’t the sort of thing that we talk about,” Courfeyrac said, “I know that it isn’t the sort of thing that anyone talks about. But half of us know about it all the same, and I can never tell if you’re one of them or not. Grantaire -”

Courfeyrac sighed. “Grantaire sketches you,” he said, “All the time. He doesn’t believe in the cause - don’t give me that look, you know that he doesn’t believe that anything’s going to change. He announced it at every meeting for the first month he was in the Musain, and after that he just started making that face. Do you know why?”

Enjolras started to make a sarcastic sort of sound, and Courfeyrac shushed him.

“Grantaire is in love with you.”

Enjolras stared at Courfeyrac, wide-eyed. “I don’t think so.”

“I do,” Courfeyrac said, “And I know a lot more about love than you do. And I thought that I ought to tell you, because - well, you’re leaving. And you ought to know.”

Courfeyrac shifted to his feet, looked down at Enjolras.

“I’m right,” Courf said, “We both know that I’m right.”

\--

In the year or so that Enjolras had known him, Grantaire had never, not once, been this hard to find.

In the afternoons, Grantaire was either in the Musain or in one of the bars on a nearby street. Enjolras had checked the bars first, ducking in just long enough for the teetotalers outside to berate him before he was back out and off to the next bar. He checked all of the usual places before he decided to check the Musain - Feuilly had just barely giving him a startled ‘afternoon!’ before he was out of there.

He had no idea where else to look for Grantaire because Grantaire was never anywhere else. He painted and sketched in the Musain; as far as Enjolras knew, that was where Grantaire sold his work, too. The bars were his main hobby.

Enjolras was wandering the streets near the Musain, checking the bars that Grantaire didn’t like, when he finally had the fortune to run into Bahorel.

Bahorel was sporting a new black eye and had a kitten riding on his shoulder like a parrot. Enjolras decided not to ask about either.

Instead he asked, in a breathless sort of way, “Do you know where Grantaire lives?”

“Tenement with purple window sills,” Bahorel said, “He likes the roof.” 

Enjolras pressed Bahorel for more diligent directions before he was off again, catching a carriage into the tenements.

Enjolras did not like the tenements. They were dirty and depressing and made him feel - just a little bit - hopeless, but he _needed_ to find Grantaire, it was _important_ and as Courfeyrac had said, it could not wait.

It was easy enough to find the tenement with the purple window sills, when it was the only thing he was looking for. Enjolras ascended the (rickety, wooden, and terrifying) fire escape up to the roof with his heart hammering in his chest.

He stopped near the top and took a few breaths to calm himself.

Heartbeat normal, he finally stepped onto the roof.

Grantaire was sitting on the edge overlooking the back of the building, a bottle in his hand.

Enjolras walked up, quietly, and sat down next to him.

“Nice view,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Mmn,” Grantaire said, “Not really.”

They sat like that for several moments, in awkward silence.

Finally Grantaire passed Enjolras a bottle. 

“Vodka,” he said, “The Russians are on our side, you know.”

Enjolras took a sip. “It doesn’t taste like anything.”

“Yeah. That’s the point.”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Enjolras said after he handed the bottle back.

“We have a meeting tonight or something?” Grantaire asked.

“No,” Enjolras said, “Not tonight. It’s just -”

He trailed off.

“Just what?”

“You sketch me,” Enjolras said, “And paint me. All the time.”

Grantaire nodded. “It’s not a problem, is it?” he asked, “Because it’s kind of too late to -”

“No,” Enjolras said, “Listen, R. Listen.”

Grantaire listened.

“You sketch me and you paint me and you don’t believe in anything,” Enjolras said, “Except me. Or so you say. And you’re a cynic - the most cynical person I’ve ever met in my damn life - and you have an alcohol problem that’s roughly the size of the entire European continent.”

Grantaire raised the bottle to that and took a sip.

“And you’re smart, and witty and clever, and - yes, R, I know those are all the same thing - and you’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, despite everything. And I think I’m in love with you.”

The bottle fell from Grantaire’s hand and shattered in the alleyway below. He swore.

“What?”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Grantaire laughed, the sort of laugh of someone who thought that they had just lost it.

“So?” Enj asked.

“You’re an idiot,” Grantaire said affectionately, and then he kissed Enjolras as though his life depended on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! This chapter is very much a bridge, which is part of why that happened.
> 
> Teetotalers was a term for temperance movement people who didn't drink at all.


	4. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is incensed, Grantaire and Bossuet face the war, and Jehan is on sabbatical.

**November, 1917**

He sat on the ground behind the French brick building, having gotten away, momentarily, from the main encampment of soldiers. 

Grantaire’s pencil scratched against the paper.

_Enjolras,_

_I’ve landed in France, though I haven’t joined combat yet. How are_

He frowned, erased.

_Dear Enjolras,_

_Not dead._

_Have you done anything stupid? Please work on not breaking the espionage act._

Another frown. Grantaire flipped to a new page in the notebook and scrawled.

_To: My Friends of the ABC_

“Writing to your secret girl?” someone asked from behind him. Grantaire tilted his head back to find himself looking up at a lanky, dark-haired boy.

“Shut up, Montparnasse,” Grantaire said, closing the pad of paper with an audible _snap._

“So you _are_ ,” Montparnasse said with a smug little grin, “Whatever. I have news.”

“News?”

He waved for Grantaire to follow him. Grantaire rolled his eyes and flt rather like a duckling as he got up, gripping the notebook, and followed Montparnasse. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, other than start and scrap letters to his friends that he was not even sure he would send.

“Are we being deployed?” Grantaire asked after several moments.

“No,” Montparnasse replied, “ _God_ , no, do we look battle ready to you? My news is much better than _that._ ”

Grantaire made a ‘hmn’ sound and dug his thumb into the cover of his notebook. “What _is_ it then?”

Montparnasse winked, and then spoke with the sort of voice he used when he was saying something he found _spectacular_ : “There are new nurses here. And Red Cross volunteers.” 

Grantaire snorted.

“Come on, let go of the secret girl,” Montparnasse said, “Drink wine and chat up pretty girls. Have fun. Christ.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, this time, but tagged along anyways. Because Eponine was in the Red Cross, and because he wanted to see _someone_ he knew even though she probably was not there, and because it was not like he had anything better to do here.

He did not end up seeing her.

**December, 1917**

Enjolras strode into the Musain, five minutes late and full of purpose. All eyes in the room fell upon him, and he stepped onto a stool and then onto table covered in faint paint marks.

“The Espionage Act is smothering, vague, and unconstitutional,” Enjolras said from his table, eyes alight, “But it is not the end.”

“ _Rumor has it_ that the Espionage Act will be followed up by _yet another_ act, in this coming year. But we will not stand for that. We will lobby against it. We will berate lawmakers. We will _write to the Supreme Court._ And we will not - _cannot_ allow _yet another_ unconstitutional allow to be passed in the name of continuing this awful, catastrophic, _war._ ”  
Enjolras stepped down from the table. After a moment, Courfeyrac followed him up.

“Enjolras is _right_ ,” Courfeyrac said, “The Espionage Act _damages_ us. Another law would damage us even more. But in times like these, we must not only think about what this law means for us, but what it means for _the rest of the people._ We forget that progressives are not the only people. We forget that there are people who cannot _afford_ to be progressive, because of their circumstances or because of their employers - we fight _for them_ , too, and we are not the only people who would suffer because of this law. So we cannot back down. We must be _proactive_. For ourselves, and for the _people._ ”

Joly and Feuilly and Gavroche applauded. Musichetta was grinning ear to ear, and looked almost sharklike.

Combeferre was up on the table as soon as Courfeyrac had clambered back down.

“Musichetta, I want you to talk to the Muckrakers,” Combeferre said, “Get them mobilized, talking to each other, signing our paperwork. Writing in their magazines, if they haven’t been silenced. Joly - see if you can get ahold of any of Debs’ people here, see if _they’re_ up to anything. He has to be just as irritated about this as we are. Cosette!”

Cosette saluted him from the back of the room.

“Make fliers. Get your father to print him, if that man is leaving him alone. Marius! Peruse the constitution. Look through precedent cases. The more legal talk that we fill our letters with, the less likely it will be that anyone will take it on. Feuilly - talk to the people. You know what to do.”

Feuilly nodded.

“If Jehan was here, I’d have him go to his legislature contacts with Enjolras and I. But he’s not. So - Bahorel?”

Bahorel grinned.

“We’re going to talk to the legislature,” Enjolras said, cutting in but not _really_ interrupting. This was how they worked. “And we’re going to make this _work._ ”

Cosette - who had always worked with Grantaire on the posters, when she was home from school and when he was not too drunk to be useful - settled into talking excitedly about the campaign with Enjolras and Feuilly. Marius slipped out to go to his afternoon class after saying goodbye to _everyone_ , and soon Musichetta was next to Courfeyrac and looking over a room of mobilized activists.

“Where _is_ Jehan?” she asked.

“Sabattical,” Courf said, “He does this, you know. He’ll be back full of ideas, with information from other activist groups. I expect we’ll see him again before the New Year.”

Musichetta nodded. “Didn’t he meet Teddy Roosevelt, once?”

“Brightest moment of his young life,” Courf said agreeably, “Jehan loved the Bull Moose Party.”

“Things are quiet, without him,” she said.

Courf looked bemused, for a moment - it was very loud, even when Enjolras was not talking and just watching, and Bahorel had just let out a boom of laughter.

“I know what you mean.”

**December, 1917**

_To: My Friends of the ABC,_

_Hello! The war is progressing As Expected; by which I mean we have not entered the trenches yet and I have made friends. They’re sort of the worst, but that was to be expected. I would draw France for you all if I had enough space in an envelope; instead, picture a quaint town with many stone buildings and an abundance of French women who glare._

_How have you all been? Keep our precious general from doing anything too stupid. Write me back with tales of your adventures; you really have no idea how boring training can be._

_As Usual,_

_Grantaire_

**March, 1918**

American soldiers were starting to enter the theater at a very fast rate, and Bossuet was one of them. 

He had hated boot camp. He did not like being overseas. He was getting regular letters from Musichetta and Joly and the rest of the gang, though - and that had been enough to maintain his spirits. But now he was in the trenches.

The soldier next to him was smoking a cigarette and Bossuet had a steady grip on his rife. He still hadn’t quite trained himself out of flinching every time a bullet whirred overhead, but it wasn’t _that_ hard to get used to living in the dirt.  
“Do you think we’ll advance today?” Bossuet asked the smoking soldier next to him, for the sake of some sort of conversation. He fired a bullet over the trench, quickly, and tried not to think about where it was going.

“I think we’ll advance never,” the soldier said, blowing out a ring of smoke.

“Mmn,” Bossuet said, shifting in his position to glance over the trench again. He ducked as another bullet whirred, not _hitting_ anything but making a lot of noise. Ineffective; like a lot of the war was.

“I heard that they might use Chlorine gas,” the other soldier said, after another exhale.

“That’s the one that -”

“You _can_ survive that one. It’s just - well. Can’t be good for you even if you do, can it?”

“No,” Bossuet said, shaking his head and firing another bullet. “No, it can’t.”

He had luck, from Musichetta and Joly. He would get through this. This is what he vowed to himself, even though every puff of mist on the horizon seemed to be a cloud of gas now.

**March, 1918**

_To: Grantaire_

_Hello! We’re good. We’re currently fighting a certain law that may or may not be signed - Enjolras is, as you likely guessed, far too into that. Everyone wishes you well. We send our love, and Feuilly wants you to know that you were right about your flat being comfortable. Try not to make any of the French women too angry._

_No one has been arrested recently. We’re all very proud._

_Your Friends of the ABC_

**April, 1918**

“I think Enjolras may actually be losing it,” Cosette said as she slid into the seat across from Courfeyrac. It was clear from her tone that she was not being _entirely serious_ , but Courf could not help but agree with her to some extent. 

Enjolras was perpetually incensed, and had started to talk _very_ seriously of actually [i]going to Washington[/i] to argue against the new legislation. As noble as that was - and Courfeyrac did agree that it was noble - it was not by any means something _feasible_ for Les Amis as a group; Combeferre could not abandon his studies for that long, and Enjolras wasn’t a lawyer. He wasn’t even in law school. Marius could fake his way past a few police officers but not the _courts_ , not _congress_ , and he could not leave New York, either.

Enjolras had also started to talk very seriously of riots. Seeing as that was a much more reasonable course of action - one that they were having an increasingly difficult time arguing against - Courf was willing to bet that that was what had Cosette worried.

“He’s been like this before,” Courfeyrac said, though in truth he was not sure that Enjolras _had_ ever been like this. 

Cosette raised an eyebrow.

“I miss Jehan,” Courfeyrac said, “Jehan would know what to do.”

Cosette considered that for a moment. 

“Well, someone has to talk him down,” Courfeyrac added, “Short of getting [i]Teddy Roosevelt[/i] or [i]Eugene V. Debs himself[/i] to come talk to him, I don’t know what we can do without Jehan. Who could probably get one of them to come talk to him. Probably.”

Cosette gave an emphatic sigh. “Have any of us talked to his parents?”

“Ferre did. His sister said that he said he was going to California.”

“Lovely.”

They sat in silence. Courfeyrac ordered a cup of coffee from the boy behind the counter - he was not any of their friends - and Cosette twirled a strand of hair around her fingers.

“I miss Ep,” Cosette said after a few minutes, “We weren’t even really friends, before Sarah Lawrence, and… I keep thinking of things I want to tell her, the way she’d screw up her face at Enjolras or roll her eyes at Combeferre or elbow Marius, the way she and my Father would always be waiting at the breakfast table by the time I got down. I miss her every morning.”

Courfeyrac got the sense that Cosette was not done.

“And I can’t help but think that _she_ could fix this, too, just by screwing up her face whenever Enjolras said something - well. But she’s not here. And neither is Grantaire, and neither is Jehan, and neither is Bossuet. But sometimes I think that we’re giving our friends too much credit.”

Courfeyrac frowned at her, just slightly.

“He’s never been like this.”  
“Jehan could still help.”

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super sorry that this took so long!
> 
> Historical Notes:  
> * TR did some problematic shit. But he was also super popular - especially with progressives - in this time period so yeah.

**Author's Note:**

> Wheee! This is at least 40% MJ's (impossiblyawesome) fault. The title comes from a WWI propaganda song.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> The Progressive/Bull Moose party is pretty much the most successful third party ever to have existed in the US. It's pretty much Teddy Roosevelt's baby, and while he didn't win in 1912, (when he ran for the third time, and split the Republican vote) he still got something like 26% of the popular vote.
> 
> The Socialist party was a political party at this point, and people weren't nearly as paranoid about socialism as they were later.
> 
> JP Morgan was a person, now there's a company named after him.


End file.
